


North Shore

by HASA_Archivist



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Drama, First Age
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-27
Updated: 2007-09-25
Packaged: 2018-03-26 01:22:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3831909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HASA_Archivist/pseuds/HASA_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Early in the First Age, followers of Fëanor face harsh conditions in their settlement around Lake Mithrim with Fingolfin as their new king.  Outside of Aman, in the dark lands of the East, the Elvish way of life progresses in unexpected and troublesome ways.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Alcarwë

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the HASA Transition Team: This story was originally archived at [HASA](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Henneth_Ann%C3%BBn_Story_Archive), which closed in February 2015. To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in February 2015. We posted announcements about the move, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact The HASA Transition Team using the e-mail address on the [HASA collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hasa/profile).

Alcarwë's right eye had a pupil shaped like a keyhole.  Part of the pale grey iris was missing.  He had not been born with this missing piece, but had lost it in Alqualondë.  At the same time, he had gained a scar, now faint and pink, which ran down from his eye in a straight line to the middle of his cheek.  Both the scar and the keyhole-shaped pupil had been given him by a Telerin boatman armed with a fishing lance.  The man had died for his trouble.

The keyhole eye still worked, though marginally.  Alcarwë could see light and colours, and indistinct shapes.  He had grown accustomed to it.  He no longer registered the blurriness.  But at times when he needed clear vision, it had become second nature to cover his right eye with his hand so as to use only the good left eye unhindered.  He did this both for reading and for spying over the lake and its crude town from his upstairs window.

"The King has lowered his flag," he said to his brother Canamírë on a clear spying day.  The sight in his left eye seemed to have grown exceptionally sharp to compensate for the ruined right.  Canamírë could see no flag on the opposite shore.

"I wager the blue and silver will be flying come tomorrow," Alcarwë continued.  "You just watch..."

"So you do think Nolofinwë will take the crown," said Canamírë.

Alcarwë nodded, stepping back from the window and pulling the shutters closed.  "I know he will.  The King and he have been telling everyone it's for the greater good.  How so, I cannot say, but I believe they plan to go through with this.  Tomorrow we will have a new king."  As he spoke, he picked up his cloak from the back of a chair and fastened it around his neck.

"Now you plan to go to the south shore and protest this transfer of power?" Canamírë asked.

"No no," said Alcarwë, and he grinned.  "I go to facilitate it and offer my good wishes."

Canamírë was lost, as happened too frequently while discussing politics with his brother.  Alcarwë, he always suspected, knew things that lesser beings could never hope to understand.  It was what made him so annoyingly successful.

Alcarwë explained.  "There are too many here still faithful to the memory of Fëanáro," he told his brother.  "Nolofinwë must know how foolish it would be to try to claim absolute power.  So, to soften the change, he will have no choice but to name to high positions a number of those who would continue to support Maitimo as the true King.  However... don't you think that he would like to, with the same appointments, choose those who also show him admiration?"

"But you do not admire him," said Canamírë.

"No," said Alcarwë, and he shrugged.  "But I have promised more to gain less in the past."

Oddly, the words brought a wispy thought of Hanessë to Canamírë's mind.

Eleven days later, at a public celebration on the lakeshore, Alcarwë was named Reeve of the North Colony by the New King.  The path of his life took a sharp turn for the better.  Canamírë's, at this time, did not.


	2. Silarië

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Early in the First Age, followers of Fanor face harsh conditions in their settlement around Lake Mithrim with Fingolfin as their new king. Outside of Aman, in the dark lands of the East, the Elvish way of life progresses in unexpected and troublesome ways.

Silarië had married Canamírë mostly because there had been no better choice.  He had been the least obnoxious of her mother's proposed matches.  She did love him in a way, but she lied to herself to say, as others often said of their spouses, that they were destined by the stars to be together for all eternity.  Those sentiments seemed too strong to describe what she felt for her husband.  Secretly, she supposed her love for him was more akin to the love she felt for cousins seen occasionally at family suppers.  This emotional failing might have pained her but for the suspicion that Canamírë was of a similar mind.  Indifference suited them.

They had been married easily sixty years but had yet no children.  This was likely due to lack of trying.  Back in Aman they had enjoyed separate bedrooms, but in Hisilómë, where proper beds were scarce and body heat was necessary to ward off winter's freeze, they shared one small cot in one small room in Alcarwë's relatively large but still small-by-Valian-standards house.  The situation was neither comfortable nor romantic.  A child could only make it worse.  Alcarwë and his wife, Hanessë, considered babies to be a burden on the new settlement's productivity.  Or, at least, Alcarwë believed this and Hanessë went along with him for the sake of household harmony.  Silarië guessed any child of hers would only strain the delicate balance.

Silarië's chief function in the daily life of Hisilómë was to assist Hanessë.  Hanessë had two servants, both Sindarin women whose children had grown and married, but as Hanessë did not speak Sindarin and the women did not speak Quenya, their usefulness was limited to what they guessed they should be doing.  They washed the floors every day and took the laundry down to the lake for a scrubbing on the rocks, but never dusted or made bread.  These tasks then fell to Silarië.  Hanessë did not do housework; she was too important.  She was the wife of the newly appointed reeve of the north shore settlement, and as such was expected to spend the better part of her time chatting with other important women about important topics.  They discussed the making of yarn dyes from indigenous flora, and how one could reuse old clothing to upholster furniture.  Silarië stayed in the kitchen and made flatbread over the fire during these visits.  She was not important enough to join the discussion, her husband being considered somewhat useless in the new settlement.

Canamírë was a spice merchant, or had been in Aman.  As the fourth child and the youngest son, he was forced to accept a fate of being constantly overlooked.  He had no special purpose known to him or anyone else.  So when he was old enough, he went to work for his childless uncle, who was in the unremarkable business of trading spices.  The uncle would travel to Valmar, taking barrels of salt and bringing back from the gardens of the Valar cinnamon and cloves and even more things with heady, exotic scents.  Canamírë remained in Tirion to manage the shop.  Toward the end, when Fëanáro was banished and stability started to crumble, business flourished.  Few were willing to endure the long journey from Formenos to Valmar for the sake of a jar of pepper when they could just as easily pay Canamírë and his uncle to do it for them.

In Hisilómë, no-one was willing to pay for anything.  And even if they had been, there were no spices to be found in this new and wild country.  Canamírë, out of a trade, was forced to rely on his brother's charity. And he was miserable for it, being unable even to pay Sindarin locals the small amount they would charge in gold or goods to build him a cabin-style house.  Alcarwë was miserable when his familial obligation stretched the small income afforded him by the New King's treasury.  Hanessë was miserable that Alcarwë's stretched income did not allow her the luxury to which she was accustomed and thought she deserved.  And Silarië was miserable for being forced to act as her sister-in-law's handmaiden.

How easy it had been, she thought, to carelessly slip from a comfortable middling position in Valinor to such lowness in the new settlement.  Everyone suffered here, and sacrificed, but it was those without who felt it most acutely.  She and Canamírë were without.  Their lives were contained to one small, cold room.

She turned over in the cot to look on her husband, pushing away from her face the pile of furs that served as blankets.  After five years, they still held the unpleasant smell of animal, and the scent mingled with Canamírë's oil-sweet, unwashed hair.  It was late enough that Alcarwë had already left to attend to his daily duties of politicking, and early enough that Hanessë was still asleep.  The Sindarin women would not arrive until after breakfast.  This left only Silarië to answer the firm knock and call at the door.  With a groan, she slid from the bed and pulled a house robe over her nightdress.  The floor was cold under her feet.  The light in the shuttered house was still dim.  She walked more by memory than sight, and squinted against the bright morning sun as she opened the door.  Three silhouettes leaned against the doorframe, panting as though they had just run a great distance.

"Morning," she said quietly.

"Canamírë," the nearest gasped through heavy breath.  "Is he in?"

"He is sleeping."

"Wake him," said the second.  "This is urgent."

Silarië hesitated only long enough to give the strangers a quick appraisal.  Then she said, "Wait here," and retreated back into the house, shutting the door behind her.

Canamírë was already sitting up in bed when she returned to him.  "Who was at the door?" he asked with a yawn.

"Three men," said Silarië.  "They want to speak to you, and say it's urgent."

"About what?"

"They didn't say.  But I think they're miners.  Their clothes are torn and filthy with grey dust, and the way they look, I'd guess they've just run down all the way from the hills.  But why would miners need to speak to you so urgently?"

The colour drained from Canamírë's face instantly.  "Where were they?  Which mine?"

"I don't know.  All they said was that they needed to speak to you.  Do you want me to ask while you dress?"

"No," said Canamírë.  He had already pulled on his breeches, and he tugged a heavy woollen tunic over his head as he spoke.  "Wake Hanessë.  Tell her to go to the Court Hall and ask after Alcarwë.  They'll have sent a messenger there to report if anything's happened."

"What do you mean, if anything-"

Canamírë turned sharply to look at her.  His eyes held an unsettling gloss of fear.  "Last night, Alcarwë told me that he was leaving early this morning to look at a site that had prospects of becoming a valuable silver mine, and settle a claim dispute on the land.  So when you tell me that three miners have run down from the hills and need to speak to me urgently, I can only fear that..."  Unable to finish, he clenched his jaw and swallowed the thought.

"I'll wake Hanessë," Silarië murmured.

"I'll send word back with a runner as soon as I can."  Canamírë stepped into his shoes, and was out the door.

Silarië watched him disappear into the trees, still struggling to pin his cloak as he chased the three already sprinting ahead.  When they were out of sight, she slowly turned and rationally remembered to fasten the door before climbing the stairs to Hanessë's room.  A surreal sort of lightheadedness had already started to settle.


	3. Hanessë

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Early in the First Age, followers of Fanor face harsh conditions in their settlement around Lake Mithrim with Fingolfin as their new king. Outside of Aman, in the dark lands of the East, the Elvish way of life progresses in unexpected and troublesome ways.

Hanessë allowed herself only enough time to dress and comb her hair before leaving for the Court Hall with an ashen grey face and shaking hands.  But when she returned a short while later, followed closely by a husband who looked to be neither dead nor in any sort of danger, it was confusion rather than fear that shaped her features.  Alcarwë, though, wore an uncertain frown as he stepped through the door and pulled off his cloak.

"What is this, the morning of endless delays?"  He looked over a sitting room full of worried faces: Silarië, the Sindarin women, their husbands, and the man from next door who had been hired to build the fence.  One of the Sindarin women murmured words of thanks to her tightly clasped hands.

"What's wrong, here?  You all look terrified."

"I told you, we thought you'd died," said Hanessë, gently touching his arm.  "Died or been badly injured."

"Why would you think that?"

Hanessë gave a small sort of cough.  "Silarië thought it.  Men came to the door asking after Canamírë, and said...  Well, I'm not sure what they said.  I was not yet awake.  But Silarië came upstairs to tell me that she thought this meant you had been killed."

Alcarwë turned to her with a questioning look.  "Silarië?"

"I..." she began.  "I mean, Canamírë thought...  Miners.  They were three miners that came to the door.  They seemed very rushed, and asked for Canamírë.  He said you had told him you were visiting a mine this morning, and he assumed... was sure that three miners running down from the hills to get him meant that somehow you had been... that something had gone wrong."

"But they said nothing about why they had come," Alcarwë replied.  "I think they would have asked to speak to Hanessë, had I been injured or killed."

At his side, Hanessë laughed softly, though the sound was forced. "Of course, of course they would..."

The relief that had coursed through Silarië's blood at the sight of Alcarwë coming up the road turned just as quickly to embarrassment and stupid humiliation.  How silly it had been to jump to conclusions and panic like that.  Of course the miners would have said something.  They would have mentioned Alcarwë's name.  One would have stayed behind to comfort Hanessë.  But they had seemed so rushed, and Canamírë had been so certain.

"Canamírë was only worried about you," she said quietly.  It was justification enough in her mind.

"That is admirable," said Alcarwë.  "If excessive."

"He thought you were at a silver mine.  It's an easy step to make to think that you might have been in danger..."

"And I would be at the mine now, if not for these constant delays." Shaking Hanessë off his arm, he pulled his cloak back on.  "First the guides are late, then a horse turns up lame, and then my wife running down the road to Court like a wild thing in panic over a rumour that I am dead..."

"Oh, don't go now!" said Hanessë.  "It's bad luck.  Ill thoughts will be on that mine today."

Turning back briefly, Alcarwë paused to kiss her cheek.  "I'm sorry, Hanessë, but I must.  We're terribly late already, and it's a long ride up the mountain just to reach the site.  The others are still waiting at the Hall.  If we don't leave now, I won't be home until after midnight.  I'll be late enough as it is."

"Be careful."

"I am always careful."

With a half smile, Hanessë ran a finger down the scar under his eye.  In the next moment he was out the door and gone.


	4. Alcarwë

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Early in the First Age, followers of Fanor face harsh conditions in their settlement around Lake Mithrim with Fingolfin as their new king. Outside of Aman, in the dark lands of the East, the Elvish way of life progresses in unexpected and troublesome ways.

Alcarwë had still not come home late that evening, after supper and past the time when Hanessë began complaining about wanting to get to bed.  She would not go until her husband walked back through the door and gave firm, bodily evidence that he had not been crushed by rocks or broken his neck falling from his horse.  She paced back and forth, wandering from kitchen to dining room to sitting room, worrying aloud that he was at that very moment being attacked by wolves or mountain cats.  Silarië stayed carefully out of her way.  Hanessë had tendencies toward blaming her troubles on whomever was convenient, and it would be Silarië's fault if Alcarwë arrived truly dead this time.  She was the one who had woken Hanessë and perpetuated the death rumour, thereby cursing the silver mine with bad luck.

When Alcarwë finally did return, it was with a snarll of disgust and an angry disposition.  The site was a disaster, he said.  A tiny vein of low-grade metal not worth the time and effort it would take to extract it.  The men who discovered it should have known better, should have recognised their failure immediately, but greed and the desperate desire to find anything valuable in this bleak new settlement had broken over everyone like fire.  With so little wealth to go around, they needed to believe they had found something that could be a turning point in the fortune of Hisilómë.

"There is nothing here," Alcarwë hissed as he ate his supper of cold soup and bread.  "Crops refuse to grow for all the pine trees rendering the soil useless.  The lake remains frozen well into spring, and fish are scarce.  The hills are full of naught but dirt and rock.  We have animals, only wild animals to hunt for meat and fur.  How pathetic is it, when the one luxury a land has is the fur of animals?  We're drowning in it.  The value has gone down so far that the poorest folk use pelts as bedding because they can't afford linen!  The New King won't wear fur; it's become too common.  His cloak is made of fleece, imported from the south where they have grass enough for sheep.  Here we have no grass, only beavers and rabbits and..."  He made a noise of disgust and downed the rest of a mug of wine.

"Well..." said Hanessë.  "It could be worse."  She spoke those words, but the tone that radiated from her defeated voice struck a different meaning: _It could not possibly get any worse than this, and now that we are at the bottom, things must start to get better._

Alcarwë grunted and shook his head in reply.  "It's worse."

A spark of alarm lit Hanessë's face.  "Worse?  How?  Does the King want to go east again?  Alcarwë, I'm not leaving.  We only just settled here, we don't even have a proper town yet, and I'm not spending any more time living in tents at some horrible new place!  Each one is worse than the last!  We should have stayed on the coast."

"No," he said.  "Nothing like that.  There is talk of going east again, but I don't know how serious they are.  In any case, that's not the trouble.  What worries me more is that the New King is coming tomorrow, and because of my position, it is expected that I should lodge him for the night here."

"The New King here," whispered Hanessë.

"One of the idiots from the silver mine site went ahead and sent a messenger to inform the New King of their fantastic find, and he will be arriving tomorrow to see for himself.  I've been burdened with the duty of explaining the failure.  Over supper, in this house."

Had Silarië been in her sister-in-law's place, she could have easily given any number of valid worries in response.  One day was insufficient notice to clean the entire house to the standard required by a royal visit.  They had no suitable food stored in the attic, and would have to take time out of cleaning to find and then cook a supper befitting their guest.  Possibly most problematic, there was hardly enough room in the small house for the four of them, let alone a king and the inevitable entourage.  But instead of any of these, what Hanessë said was, "He can't come here!  I have nothing formal enough to wear, and this wretched climate has turned my hair brittle and dry!  I can't be seen by a king now!"

Even to Silarië across the room, it was obvious that Alcarwë had to swallow an urge to laugh; the edges of a smile pulled at his lips as he took his wife's hand in his own, squeezing it gently.  "Hanessë," he said.  "I know you pride yourself on your looks, but you must know that there are many other graver and more important issues to resolve before we can worry about you hair and wardrobe.  The house, the supper, how to present bad news...  If the New King is well fed and treated with the proper respect, I am sure he won't care about whether or not you look pretty."

Hanessë flashed him a dangerous scowl and pulled her hand away.

"Which," he added quickly, "you always do.  Even in your oldest, plainest dresses, you are a constant vision of loveliness, my darling."

"The New King is half Vanyarin," Hanessë snapped.  "You know how Vanyar are.  They are very fussy and always concerned with appearances, and that's how he is.  We've both met him.  He's not at all like our lord Fëanáro."

Alcarwë took her hand again, holding it tightly this time and refusing to let her pull back.  "And that is why we must all work together to make certain everything is properly organised.  Have the house in order.  I know it is not normally your responsibility, but Hanessë, just for tomorrow, I am asking you to help Silarië with the chores.  Make things look nice.  Have the floor washed and the rugs beaten.  Hearth cleaned.  The New King will have our bed, so linens washed.  Some decorations about the sitting room, perhaps?"

For a long and cold moment, she silently kept his gaze.  "Fine," she said, and Alcarwë released her hand.  She took a breath, slowly, and exhaled it as a hiss from between her teeth.  "I will do as I can.  Now you must excuse me.  I must get to bed if so much work is expected tomorrow."

Alcarwë let her go with no further argument.  He refilled his cup from the wine jar on the table, and spoke to Silarië only after a dragging pause.  "It's stressful, you know, for all of us.  Especially for her.  She's not accustomed to...  Well.  She was happier in Aman."

"I know," Silarië answered.  Alcarwë's speech was an excuse.  He knew as well as she did that Hanessë had no intention of touching so much as dust rag, and he would rather make excuses than fight against his wife's stubbornness.  

"So, if you can..." 

Silarië nodded.  "I'll have the housekeepers over early tomorrow.  They can help me.  I'll let Hanessë choose dishes and decorate the table."

"Good girl," said Alcarwë.  He gave her a tight, almost patronising smile, which she refused to return.  "I'll leave you in charge of the house, then, and Canamírë will oversee our supper.  Have him get a goose from the shore market, will you?  And where is he, anyhow?"

"He's not yet come home."

The simple words, which had coursed through her head all evening as troublesome but airy thoughts, turned instantly, dreadfully heavy the moment she spoke.  The phrase was no longer a simple worry, but the hard and undeniable truth.  Canamírë had not yet returned home.  He had sent no reassurance and no message regarding his whereabouts.

"Not home?" Alcarwë asked with a frown.  "Where did he go?"

"He left this morning, with the miners.  I thought they were going to find you, but... they've not returned."

"Odd," said Alcarwë.  He stood, stretching his arms behind his back and pacing a few steps around the table.  "He'd better come back soon; I need him here for the New King's visit tomorrow.  I'll be out all morning at the Council Hall."

"You're not worried about him?"

"My brother is a grown man, Silarië.  He has sense enough to take care of himself.  I'm more worried about tomorrow's events and the inevitable problems that will arise."  To punctuate, he slapped his hands down on the tabletop.  "And I can't think on it any more tonight or I'll go mad.  Good night.  If I remember anything else that needs to be done, I'll let you know in the morning."

He paused on his way out long enough to look up at the red and yellow banner hanging above the fireplace.  "Hmm.  And I shall need a new flag."

Flags, Silarië considered, were politics.  And political subtlety always bested family in the hierarchy of Alcarwë's mind.

"I will wait up for him," she whispered to the air, while the flag above the fire rippled its edges against a draught.


	5. Silarië

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Early in the First Age, followers of Fanor face harsh conditions in their settlement around Lake Mithrim with Fingolfin as their new king. Outside of Aman, in the dark lands of the East, the Elvish way of life progresses in unexpected and troublesome ways.

Canamírë did not come home that night. When Silarië woke in the morning she was still in her chair by the faded fire, stiff and cold from a night of poor sleep. She could hear Hanessë's voice carrying from upstairs as Alcarwë came down. Before he left, he offered little more than a quick nod in her direction. Hanessë followed a moment later, wearing a falsely bright smile and carrying a small but handsome wooden chest.  
  
"Well!" she said cheerily as she set the chest down on the table at Silarië's side. "Alcarwë is off to attend to matters at the Court Hall, and that leaves us to ready the house! I was thinking we should do the beds first, as the linens will take all day to dry. Alcarwë said he would stop and summon our Sindarin ladies on his way, so they should be arriving soon, and they can do the washing. You should probably start in here with the sweeping and dusting, because this room will be the first thing the New King sees when he arrives. For myself, I must get ready to be a hostess, so I will have a bath immediately. But don't you worry; I can manage my own bathwater, so there's one less thing for you to do!"  
  
Hanessë smiled again, the same fiercely radiant pose she usually reserved for charming Alcarwë's rivals, and Silarië choked down the urge to slap her. Calmly, she stood. "That's lovely, Hanessë, but don't you think-"  
  
"Oh no, no, but thank you, that is very kind of you to offer," said Hanesse, and she clasped her hands around Silarië's, as she might do to a small child. "I think I can do it all by myself. I know how to boil the kettles. It's no trial. I can even pour them. So you needn't worry about me, and just concentrate on your own chores. I will be perfectly fine on my own."  
  
She tossed her head back with a flippant giggle and gave Silarië's hands a quick squeeze before flitting from the room with the speed of a hare. The door to the back room, where the bath basin stood, swung shut behind her to make a final sort of sound, rich in its echo through the small house. But she opened it again almost immediately to shout a further instruction.  
  
"Oh, and be certain you don't touch the silverware in the chest I brought down. If it's touched by dirty hands, it will tarnish. I will set it out myself once I've done my bath, and the table linens and supper service too. You just do the cleaning."  
  
Then the door slammed shut again, rattling on its hinges. A second later, Silarië could hear a scraping noise from beyond, as if someone were trying to push something heavy across the floor.  
  
~  
  
Hanessë had barricaded herself in the bathing room, moving the basin so that it blocked the door and prevented anyone from disturbing her. She sat in there the entire day, with nut butter on her hair and sweet oil on her hands and feet, while Silarië and the Sindarin women prepared the house for the New King's visit. Silarië said nothing when she finally did emerge, but continued to scrub the floor with dedicated violence. Hanessë chattered meaningless pleasantries in return. She sighed and groaned with the effort of carrying the silverware chest to the dining table, as if an excess of noise would redeem her work ethic, and discussed aloud the difficult task of picking out the best cutlery for the New King to use. A King could not be given a bent knife, she said, no matter how pretty it might be.  
  
Hanessë was famous for her silverware. As the only child of a gem-cutter father made rich by the wealth of Tirion's jewels, she had brought a considerable dowry into her marriage with Alcarwë. The silver set was only a small part of that. Originally there had been sixteen full place settings of dishes and cutlery grand enough for Finwë's own table, but over the years, this had been whittled down to three plus a few odd pieces here and there. Half had been given to Alcarwë's sister, who stayed in Tirion. Half of what remained had been abandoned on the shores of Araman when Fëanáro limited what could be brought aboard the ships. Somewhere between Araman and Hisilómë, another plate had disappeared, along with a fish fork and a salt dish. Hanessë blamed the quick fingers of the Sindarin porters Alcarwë had hired to carry their belongings over the mountains.  
  
She draped the table with a dark red cloth, and set out her three full sets of dinnerware at one end of the table. "It is very lucky that I have three left," she said. "That's one for the New King, one for Alcarwë, and one for me. You and Canamírë can use the wooden plates in the kitchen. I know you don't mind, do you? You and he aren't accustomed to finery, as we are."  
  
The timely arrival of Alcarwë in that moment prevented Silarië from having to say anything in reply, or having to stop herself from saying anything in reply. He burst through the door like a wild animal, hair tangled and flying about his head in a windy crown, and fixed panicked eyes on Hanessë. "New King's coming," he said. And then he shot past them to take the stairs up at a double stride.  
  
Hanessë dropped her carefully folded napkin and followed him, and Silarië, both eager to hear news of the King and dreading it, followed Hanessë. They found Alcarwë in the bedroom upstairs with his overclothes already pulled off. "I've put out your best outfit on the chair by the window," Hanessë began, but Alcarwë dismissed her with a frantic wave of the hand.  
  
"No. Wrong colour." He flung open the wardrobe doors and began searching through the shelves, finally pulling out an unbleached linen tunic and a dark grey jerkin.  
  
"Oh, you can't wear that old thing!" said Hanessë. "It looks like you stole it off the back of some peasant farmer!"  
  
"It's the only neutral clothing I have."  
  
"And it's plain and ugly!" Stepping forward, she pulled both items out of his hands. "Look, the tunic might as well be a nightshirt, and this jerkin-"  
  
"The jerkin is made of kid leather," Alcarwë interrupted, "and, despite being plain, was also very expensive. Now I will gladly ornament it with whatever excessive jewellery you see fit, Hanessë, but for the love of the stars give it back to me! The New King's boat is halfway across the lake and I need to get dressed!"  
  
Hanessë sniffed, pushed a bit of hair behind her ear, and grudgingly handed back Alcarwë's jerkin. "But not the tunic," she said. "You're not wearing dull linen under dull leather. Use the gold one from your good suit."  
  
"Hanessë..." he hissed, but Hanessë kept her chin stubbornly high.  
  
"Gold tunic."  
  
Alcarwë looked ready to snap with the frustrated rage that roiled behind his eyes. But he held Hanessë's gaze only a moment before turning around with a muttered curse, clearly having decided that time was too precious to waste on arguments over clothing. He grabbed the gold tunic from its chair and pulled it roughly down over his head.  
  
"Isn't that nicer?" Hanessë asked sweetly. "You do look very handsome in gold. Then if you wear that wide gold chain with the amethyst pendant, and your rings, and that cloak pin my mother gave you... Yes. That should be good."  
  
"Whatever jewels you want me to wear, get them out now," he told her. "I don't have time for..." His voice trailed off into an indistinct sound of exasperation as he put on the jerkin and fumbled too hastily with its clasps. As soon as it was fastened, he stood at the window with a hand over his damaged right eye, spying out toward the lake.  
  
"Is the New King-" Silarië began, but an exhalation of relief from Alcarwë answered her unasked question.  
  
"Still halfway. His boat has slowed. He may be trying to delay the arrival. Good. That's good. Hanessë, jewellery?"  
  
Hanessë handed him the few pieces she had set out on the table. "The chain and two rings, but that one with the three garnets must be in a different box. And the cloak pin must be-"  
  
"It's on my old black wool. Never mind it or the garnet ring. This is fine."  
  
"I will get the pin from your cape," said Hanessë. "I know where it is. You can't wear your new cape just tied; it looks cheap." And she left the room with the smug look of the self-important upon her face.  
  
Silarië dared not look directly at Alcarwë in the moments after Hanessë left, but glanced at him only carefully from the corner of her eye. He stood rubbing his hands against his forehead.   
  
"Silarië?" he asked quietly.  
  
She had to look at him to answer. "Yes?"  
  
"Is the house clean at least?"  
  
"Yes. The Sindarin women and I washed the floors and hearth and all the bedding, and dusted the sitting room and dining room. We beat out the carpets and I put all new candles in the table fixture."  
  
"Thank you. And Hanessë? Did she...?" He paused, as if trying to think of anything Hanessë might have done.  
  
"She set the table," Silarië said. It took a good effort to keep the cut of bitterness from her voice. "She was very concerned with giving the New King the best silverware."  
  
Alcarwë dropped his head back and sighed. "I suppose that is something, at least. Now what about the supper?"  
  
"Everything is prepared. A goose is already cooking, and we have two large fish to add to that. Bread dough is ready to bake so we can time it to serve hot. Soup and dumplings just need to boil."  
  
"Canamírë is tending the goose?"  
  
Silarië's heart did a strange leap and twist at the sound of her husband's name. "He's..." she began, but the word acted as a stopper in her throat, and nothing could come after it.  
  
"He's not yet returned," Alcarwë said quietly.  
  
She must have turned as pale as she felt, with a cold and damp forehead and bloodlessly numb cheeks, as Alcarwë regarded her with a look that edged away from his usual inscrutability and bordered on concern. Woodenly, she shook her head.  
  
"Then I will send someone from the Council Hall to look for him. I can spare a man or two once the New King is here. I am sure he is fine." The last he added in a forcedly warm voice, accompanied by an empty smile. "Now come with me downstairs. There is one more thing to do, and I need to you do it."  
  
~  
  
Silarië followed Alcarwë from the house with Hanessë close behind her, complaining mightily. "I can't see why you want to take her, Alcarwë," Hanessë snapped. "If anyone should go with you to meet the New King's boat, it should be me! I am your wife! She's wearing a dirty apron and hasn't even combed her hair!"  
  
"Silarië is not going to meet the New King," groaned Alcarwë. "At least, not until after you do, my love."  
  
"Then why am I-" Silarië began, but Alcarwë interrupted.  
  
"I need you to get the flag."  
  
"The flag?"  
  
"From the Council Hall. Nolofinwë's banner flies on the roof. I need you to bring that banner back here to hang alongside ours above the fireplace. But not until after Nolofinwë sees it at the Hall. Now come on, walk with me." As he started away, he called back over his shoulder, "Hanessë, we will be back shortly. Make sure the house is pretty."  
  
Hanessë huffed, but said nothing. She slammed the door behind her as she disappeared back inside.  
  
"Now here is what you must do," Alcarwë continued. He had set a quick pace down the road to the Hall, and Silarië struggled to stay at his shoulder. "You may line up with the others to watch the New King's boat land, but you will not be introduced yet. You will wait there until he and I have departed and are out of sight of the Hall. I have a man waiting on the roof to take down the banner, and he will give it to you. You must then run as quickly as you can back here to hang the banner above the fireplace. This way, to Nolofinwë, it will seem as if I keep one of his banners in my own home as well as where it is required at the Council Hall, and the proper respect will be shown."  
  
"Will I have enough time?" Silarië asked. In her old shoes and heavy skirts, running would be difficult. It was trouble enough walking alongside Alcarwë.  
  
"I will delay as much as I can, and take a scenic tour around the town. If you run, you will have enough time to hang the banner before we arrive." He paused, a look of consideration crossing his face. "Hang the new banner on the right," he decided. "A blue banner on the right to symbolise a new king in the east. Our allegiance to Fëanáro remains behind in the west. Or so it will appear."


	6. Nolofinwë

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Early in the First Age, followers of Fanor face harsh conditions in their settlement around Lake Mithrim with Fingolfin as their new king. Outside of Aman, in the dark lands of the East, the Elvish way of life progresses in unexpected and troublesome ways.

Silarië stood near the end of a long line of observers congregating on the shore of the lake to witness the New King's arrival. She was close enough to see him, but not so close that he might notice her among the hundreds that had turned out for the spectacle. As per Alcarwë's instruction, she was not to be seen by the New King until he arrived at the house and had been introduced to Hanessë.  
  
From the surprised whispers running up and down the lines of people, it seemed as if all of them, not only Silarië, had expected a grander entrance. Instead, the New King came with only one small boat. That boat contained only four bodies: the New King, two rowers, and another man dressed all in black. No courtiers followed, no guards, no musicians, no ladies, and no officers. The New King climbed out of the boat and onto the dock with the help of his companion in black, and none of the pageantry of Tirion was there to support him. It was embarrassing, in a way. One thing Silarië had always loved about kings was the ways in which they knew how to put on a good show. Finwë, who had frequently paraded down the streets of Tirion under a shower of fragrant petals and herbs, smiling grandly atop his grey horse, would never have appeared so poorly.  
  
She watched as Alcarwë bowed to Nolofinwë and spoke his words of welcome on the dock. She was too far to hear, but had listened to enough similar speeches from him to guess at the contents of this one. He would say how honoured he was to be in the presence of the New King, offer some meaningless compliments, and feign admiration and deference while inserting little half-hidden comments meant to glorify himself. He would certainly mention how difficult it was to live in the north shore settlement, and how tirelessly he worked to keep it habitable.  
  
As Alcarwë spoke, he led the New King up from the dock and to the square in front of the Council Hall, where a horse waited. There appeared to be a short exchange, full of bowing an wide arm gestures, on the appropriateness of the New King riding while Alcarwë walked, though Silarië knew it to be only for show. A moment later, Nolofinwë sat up on the horse, and Alcarwë once again led the way. He turned away from the town square and into a path through the trees that would take him around the perimeter of the settlement.  
  
Silarië ran to the Hall the moment they disappeared from view. Already, a man on the roof had unfastened the banner, which he rolled snugly and tossed down to her. She tucked it under her arm, lifted her skirts to the knee, and ran as fast as she could manage down the muddy roads that led back to Alcarwë's house. It must have rained in the night; murky water still filled the deepest of the wheel-ruts. Poking out from under her arm, the banner looked dirty and damp.  
  
She ran up to the front door, throwing it open but not daring to step inside with her muddy shoes. "Hanessë!" she shouted. "Hanessë, I need your help!"  
  
"I'm busy!" came the reply from kitchen.  
  
"This is more important. It's the most important! Please, get out here, now!"  
  
Hanessë poked her head around the corner from the kitchen, a hard scowl on her face. "What?" she snapped.  
  
"The banner," said Silarië. She gave a frantic wave toward the banner hanging above the fireplace. "Get it down, and give it to me. And I need some nails and the hammer. Quickly! The New King is on his way!"  
  
"The banner?" Hanessë asked with a frown. "But it always stays there. Alcarwë said-"  
  
Silarië could have smacked her. "I don't care what Alcarwë said!" she shouted. "Hanessë, we have no time! Just listen to me! Pull the banner down! I'm hanging it outside instead."  
  
"It can't go outside!" argued Hanessë. "It will be filthy out there."  
  
With a frustrated grunt, Silarië unfurled the Council Hall banner onto the floor. "Look! This one is already filthy! We can't hang it inside as Alcarwë wanted, because the New King will know it just came in from outside! The best we can do is put them both outside, on the front of the house. Do you understand?"  
  
"I suppose..." Hanessë said slowly.  
  
"Then pull Fëanáro's banner down! Hurry! Please! They could be here any moment!"  
  
Hanessë huffed and sighed like a martyr, but at least she hurried to grab a chair from around the table and drag it over to the fireplace. Standing on her toes and stretching up, she could just reach the nails fastening the banner to the stone chimney. She worked them loose and pulled the banner free, then tossed it to Silarië before climbing down.  
  
"Nails for Nolofinwë's banner," said Silarië. "Hammer. In the toolbox to the right of the hearth."  
  
With another sigh, Hanessë fetched the hammer and nails. "Now can you do it on your own?" she asked as she brought them to Silarië.  
  
Silarië took the hammer and nails, and ran back outside. "Yes, fine!" she called back. "You can go back to what you were doing!" Hastily, she held up Nolofinwë's banner against the wall on the right-hand side of the front of the house, and drove a nail through each of the loops at the top corners. Once it was secure, she ran to the left side and fixed Fëanáro's banner in place. Made to hang indoors, it was lighter than Nolofinwë's, and far too clean. "Oh no..." she muttered. Only one solution presented itself. It was a treasonable offence, but one that she hoped could be overlooked in light of the urgent circumstances. Offering a quick prayer for forgiveness to the memory of Fëanáro, she squatted down beside a puddle in the grass to swipe her fingers through the wet earth. Then she stood, and ran her muddied hands down the corded edges of the banner.  
  
Watching from the doorway, Hanessë shrieked in alarm. "Silarië! What are you-"  
  
"I'll wash it tomorrow!" Silarië called back. "I'm sorry, but I must do it!" She bent down again to gather a cupped handful of puddle water, which she flung at the banner's edges. Hanessë shrieked again at the sight.  
  
"Alcarwë will skin you alive, you wicked little spider!"  
  
"Alcarwë will understand!" She threw one more handful of water at the banner's bottom, then wiped her hands again down its edges. "The banner was too clean. The New King would have noticed."  
  
"Too clean!" Hanessë spat. "How can it be 'too clean'? It's meant to be clean!"  
  
"Look at it. Alcarwë wanted a matching set, as if both banners continuously hung at this house. The blue banner is dirty, and ours clean, so it's obvious that they come from different places. To match them, we need to either wash that one or dirty ours, and we have no time for washing."  
  
"Then you should have thought of this sooner!"  
  
For the second time that day, Silarië had to clench her fists against her skirt to keep from striking Hanessë. "You can air your complaints to Alcarwë," she said quietly, though her voice wavered with frustration. "I am only trying to do the best I can, with his interests in mind."  
  
"I will certainly tell Alcarwë that-" Hanessë began, but froze before she could say exactly what she would be telling. The sound of carefully controlled laughter fluttered up from the forest path, followed by the steady step of horse's hooves. "Oh!" she gasped. "They're here! Inside, quickly! You're covered in mud and your dress is filthy!"  
  
Silarië wasted no time. She kicked off her shoes and carried them into her bedroom, shutting the door behind her. Her dress, while not as filthy as Hanessë made it sound, was nonetheless wet around the hem and far below the standards of a royal visit.  She pulled it off and changed as quickly as she could into her faded green gown: a dress that had once been elegant but now simply looked old and worn. The sleeves had been mended too many times and there were ugly patches at the elbows, but she could cover those with a little fur shoulder-cape. And her slippers, though scuffed, would mostly stay hidden beneath her skirt. She pulled her hair back with a ribbon and looped a belt of soft, grey fur around her waist. It looked better than nothing, and would have to do. All of her jewellery had disappeared some time ago, as payment to Alcarwë for his varying favours.  
  
By the time she returned to the sitting room, Nolofinwë had been given a place of honour in the best chair by the fireside. Alcarwë sat opposite him, and Hanessë stood behind Alcarwë with an insincerely radiant smile on her face. Nolofinwë's attendant had wandered away to examine Alcarwë's meagre bookshelf.  
  
"Which is unfortunate," Alcarwë was saying, "because I was certain we were due for a turn of good luck."  
  
Nolofinwë held up his hand in a gesture of understanding. "Yes, it is a shame, but we mustn't lose hope. We have been here such a short time, after all, and have not yet explored even a fraction of the land."  
  
"Very true," Alcarwë agreed, almost too readily. "Very true. That is something I hope to encourage in the coming years. We must find out what this new land of ours has to offer." His good eye caught sight of Silarië, and he glanced over to her. "But!" he said. "Allow me to interrupt for a moment to introduce my sister, Silarië."  
  
"Silarië," said Nolofinwë, acknowledging her with a slight nod.  
  
Silarië stepped forward to curtsey before the New King and kiss the signet ring on his right hand: a ring that had once belonged to Finwë and then Fëanáro. "My Lord King."  
  
"Silarië is Alcarwë's younger brother's wife," she heard Hanessë say from behind, adding the necessary qualifier to their relationship. Of course Silarië was not good enough to be Alcarwë's true sister.  
  
Nolofinwë, though, appeared to have no interest in either Hanessë's clarification or Silarië at all. He turned back to Alcarwë to resume their conversation. "The expeditions should be organised, though," he said. "We need to ensure that your men and mine will not be wasting their time exploring the same areas."  
  
Thusly dismissed, Silarië did not bother to listen to Alcarwë's response. She pretended not to notice Hanessë's twitchy little hand flips, which she supposed were meant to summon her to stand behind Alcarwë's chair like a good wife of a younger brother, and instead slipped away to the safety of the kitchen. There, the Sindarin women were squawking and flapping like agitated birds, bread rolls and dessert cakes abandoned. Silarië followed their gestures out through the back window.  
  
She had not even noticed the New King's attendant leave the sitting room, but he must have done so just before she did. He must have escaped through the kitchen and into the back garden, upsetting the Sindarin women with his soldierly presence in the middle of their baking. Silarië did not blame him one bit for taking the opportunity to leave the burdensome presence of Nolofinwë, Alcarwë, Hanessë, and their incessant talk of politics. Out in the garden behind the house, he wandered in lazy circles, swinging his sword and tossing it from hand to hand. He could spin that sword around with only a flick of his wrist, whirling it under his arm and around his back before catching it over his head, as if it were no more dangerous than a piece of driftwood on the lakeshore.  Fascinated, Silarië had to pause and watch him.  
  
He turned to face the house, and Silarië looked away too late. He grinned as his eyes locked on hers. Blushing like a fool, she cursed under her breath at being caught staring, and did the only thing she could think of to salvage her dignity.  
  
"Welcome to the home of Reeve Alcarwë, sir," she called, as if she had been trying all along to attract his attention. "You must be thirsty after travelling all the way from the south town. May I offer you a drink?"  
  
With the formality of any courtier, he bowed to her. "Thank you, lady. That is most kind."


End file.
